What A Beautiful State You're In
by LittlePageAndBird
Summary: Before they came here she was breath-taking, incredible, sexy as hell. She's still all that, of course, but she's more now. She's all the little things. He feels like he's been spinning around a galaxy and only now stopping long enough to admire the stars inside of it.


"Your toast is going to get cold."

River says it without looking up, stabbing at a piece of sausage and nibbling the edge of it experimentally. The Doctor barely even registers that she's spoken, chin propped up in his hands and head tilted to one side.

He's forgotten what the rest of the universe looks like. Doesn't particularly care to remember. She laughs and no other sound matters to him. Sex is his favourite pastime. It's embarrassing, it's sickening, and he loves it like mad. As long as he keeps pushing sunrise to the back of his mind – not too hard, when it's still twenty-three-and-a-half years away – he's in a permanent state of elation.

They've decided to give themselves a year before they start trying. He often finds himself thinking about that day; that they might create something brand new that is half her and half him. Stardust and honey and hope, she calls it. He likes that. It's a future he swore he'd never dare to contemplate again but every rule he's ever made is suspended here, with River. For River.

But for now, they are Darillium's most notorious inhabitants for reasons he's far too embarrassed to go into. He can't remember exactly how they managed to get to the end of the previous evening – he may have been persuaded into a few beverages himself – just that they woke up on the Tardis floor, dressed only in a Stetson and a feather boa between them.

They could both drink like Time Lords, but only River suffered hangovers like a human. She'd spent the morning crawling around the Tardis with one of his hoodies zipped up to her nose, like a very pissed off ghost. Smelling faintly of tequila.

Perhaps it shouldn't be a total surprise to him that she resonates best with this body when she's scruffy and grumpy as hell. She's practically Scottish this morning. Her hair looks like it's been dipped in anti-gravity, and her barely-open eyes are ringed with shadows. He doesn't entirely know why, but he finds her rather devastatingly beautiful when she's a complete mess. He follows the lines at the corners of her eyes with his own, making a little wish on her behalf for each one.

She presses her mug of coffee to her nose and inhales deeply. "Stop it."

He blinks. "What?"

"The moony eyes."

He smiles. He's well aware that he's barely torn his eyes away from her since sunset. And he feels like his soul is being given over to her in fragments; every time she smiles he can feel it. He lets it happen, gives himself over to her willingly, and he knows that when this is all over there's going to be nothing left of him. He doesn't care.

The observation is just begging to be made, and he doesn't tend to keep his thoughts to himself these days. Their time is too valuable to waste on silences that could be filled, and words don't frighten him like they used to. "You're cute."

Her eyes shoot up. "I'm what?" she asks sharply.

He bites down on his bottom lip – if he laughs at her that fork's going in his eye – and stretches out his little finger to skate along the bumps her knuckles make under her skin. Physical affection is a delicate art when she's in this sort of state, and even this small gestuure makes her emit a tiny albeit slightly feral growl.

"Cute," he insists. The word sounds at odds with this gravelly old voice, but he likes it. He likes it on her. Before they came here she was breath-taking, incredible, sexy as hell. She's still all that, of course, but she's more now. She's all the little things. He feels like he's been spinning around a galaxy and only now stopping long enough to admire the stars inside of it.

It's precious, this thing they've created on this little planet of theirs. Maybe that's why he likes it so much when she's like this. It's normal – they're normal – and to him there's really nothing more extraordinary than that.

"No," she retorts flatly.

"Yes."

Her eyes narrow fiercely, sensing the challenge. "No."

"Yes."

He grins, unrepentant, and she kicks him in the shin under the breakfast table. "Hate you."

He kicks her back gently. "Love you."

The corner of her mouth curls into a very tiny smile, and he knows he's won.


End file.
